Patriotic
by mugglehugger101
Summary: He's my neighbor, though we don't really talk to each other. That until I found out that he was Captain America. OC slow romance build up
1. Part 1: Blondie

**Patriotic **

**SUMMARY:** He's my neighbor, though we don't really talk to each other. That until I found out that he was Captain America. (slow romance build up)

* * *

My bad day started when I woke up to hear an annoying stream of incessant knocking. It was a Sunday, for crying out loud, and it was the only day of the week that I could sleep in. Normally, I woke up around the afternoon, so you could guess the explosive expression on my face when I rolled off my bed and read that it was 7:45 AM.

I practically threw open my door and growled out an unpleasant "What?" It took all my self-restraint not to, now that I found myself facing before my neighbor, Blondie.

Blondie frowned, obviously displeased about my disheveled appearance. He once nagged to me about keeping up a good lifestyle by waking up early _every_ morning, but it wasn't like I really listened. "Miss Won," he said curtly.

I nodded. "Morning," I said.

There was a stretch of silence.

"What?" I asked.

His frown deepened. "If you don't mind," he articulated with patience, "could you please spare a cup of sugar? I'm afraid I don't have time to make it to the store today."

These were one of those rare moments when Blondie would request something from me, and the disapproving looks and speech decorum always followed. But, really, how can I refuse? Despite having the appearance of a typical class-A jock, Blondie possessed a look that all unhappy mothers would kill for, not to mention the power to nag. So, deciding that I could use one less mom, I retreated back into my apartment and grabbed a box of sugar.

And, of course, Blondie would have a cup ready in his hand.

Normally, I wouldn't bother making small talk with Blondie, but I couldn't help but be curious. "Why don't you have time to run to the store?" I asked, opening the tab of the box. "You usually wake up early to jog, yeah?" I gestured to his work-out clothes he had on.

"I did plan to buy sugar on the way, but…unexpected business came up, so I couldn't go out. I only have time to make oatmeal cookie dough for the retirement home."

The little knowledge I had about Blondie was that not only did he keep a ridiculous (well, to me it was) morning schedule, but he volunteered at random places. His official job—whatever it was—called him whenever he was needed, and sometimes he would be gone for long periods of time—days, weeks—and he would come back with these cuts and bruises.

I was initially wary when this first happened, but I eventually got over it. Maybe it was because every time I passed by my neighbor's door, I could literally smell red, white, and blue wafting up my nose. It wasn't like he stamped patriotic stickers all over his doorframe or had an American Flag welcome mat. He just seemed like the genuine old-fashioned American man. I mean, the guy volunteers to help the old and the poor, and give cheesy ethical lectures and _nags_—you'd think he'd be the golden and glory personified.

Blondie's forehead creased as he continued talking. I was a bit surprised to hear him in a talking mood. "Which is rather disappointing because I really did want to surprise one of the ladies there with my cookies. She didn't believe me when I said that I enjoyed baking."

"Mmm." I poured the sugar to the brim of his cup. "Well, there's always next time, and that'll be the time when you get back from your business." Whatever it was.

He shrugged. "I suppose so."

"Yup."

"Thank you for the sugar, Miss Won. I do appreciate it."

"No problem." I closed the door with a slight slam, eager to get back to bed.

My bad day continued when I stepped on my other foot and fell face forward.

XOXOXOXO

My bad day continued on my way to the grocery store. On my way there, some kid tripped and smeared his ice cream all over my sweater, and then I had to explain to an angry mother that it wasn't my fault. Seriously—I was victimized by a fuming lady who went on a ten minute rant about how "young adults should watch where they're going!"

_Then_, once that was out of my hair, Iron Man flew across the skies in a blur of red and gold, which I later found myself within a loud and pushing crowd of people—someone jabbed me in the ribs, and there _will_ be a bruise right there.

Of course, if Iron Man's here, then Captain America, the Hulk, that Viking guy who wields a hammer, and two other people show up. Curious as to _why_ they're in Brooklyn, but if they're here then that might just mean that danger is on the loose.

"Get the civilians to safety!" shouted a faint blue figure to the police officers. It was Captain America.

Again, I was being pushed and shoved by flailing arms. One arm smacked me on the nose.

This really sucked. Not just because there was trouble in the streets, but because I had nothing at home to eat! My dinner, and tomorrow's breakfast and lunch were supposed to be bought today—and yet _this_ happened.

And what sucked even more? The fact that all the civilians were pushed into the subways, and I had to be squished against Gary Abbas. Gary—_freaking_—Abbas. It was as if my day couldn't get any worse.

Apparently, with my back turned facing him, he couldn't see that it was me, so I kept my position that way. Unfortunately, I was breathing in a hobo's lovely aroma from a rather personal distance, but, hey, sure beats turning around and show Gary Abbas the pretty chocolate picture painted all over my sweater.

Finally, after thirty minutes of just standing and suffocating, the Avengers' fight was over. Heck, I didn't know what they were fighting against, but I'm sure I'll find out in the news. We couldn't leave until everyone was all checked and accounted for, and then we were all instructed to go home.

So. No dinner. No breakfast or lunch either.

Well, the goodish news? Gary Abbas never noticed that it was me who was before him. I think he was too immersed talking about the Avengers with his peers; he always gets excited whenever it came to the Avengers. It was Captain America in high school, and then the Avengers.

Gary Abbas was cute and all, but he should tone it down with the super hero infatuation.

XOXOXOXO

"What happened to your forehead?"

I was taking a nap because any sane person would after a hard Sunday, and Sunday's weren't supposed to be hard at all. Today was such illogicality—such hardships on a Sunday should be illegalized. I swear, the next guy who runs for President and promises to make it the 28th amendment or whatever, I'll even drag Captain America to vote for him. Anyone would vote for someone if Captain America approves of the person—duh.

While I was sleeping, ever so comfortably on my comfortable couch, I was startled awake by knocking. Unremitting knocking that will _never_ end unless I open the door. One guess who that could be.

So, I literally fell off the couch, gained another bruise to match the one that an elbow gave me, and called Blondie a stupid butthole under my breath _before_ opening the door. As if I'll ever take the risk of calling Blondie that; he might melt me down with his death-ray glare of disapproval.

Blondie stood there with his hair mussed up, his face covered in sheen of sweat and dust, and small cuts and bruises littered his skin. Seeing him like this wasn't out of the norm; I think he worked for an agency or something.

Blue eyes zeroed in on my forehead, and thus came the blurted question: "What happened to your forehead?"

"I tripped," I said honestly. Usually, I would just lie to him so that he would go away, but the "I tripped" excuse would have been both a lie—depending on my intention—or a truth—which it actually was.

Blondie, of course, was not convinced. And, judging by that firm line from his lips, I could say that he had another lecture to give me. Was that all our discussions could ever be limited to? Our short meets 'n greets and berates from Mr. Priggish? I think he's been hanging around those old people too often. He sometimes even talks like them.

Instead of giving me an earful, he said, "Miss Won."

"Oh, come on," I groaned, exasperated and tired—more so tired. "I really did trip! What? You thought that some guy just started swinging his arms around and elbow my forehead for no reason? Because that'd be really weird; I got an elbow bruise on my ribs, actually, from the time when the Avengers came to defeat a monster or whatever villain." Oh my gosh—I must've been really out of it.

He blinked. "You—you got injured?"

"No! Just—when the civilians had to be out of the way by Captain America's orders, we were all clumped up in a squished crowd, and everyone was panicking, so…yeah," I said, gesticulating nonsensically.

"Oh."

"So…" I began. "Was there something that you needed?"

"I, um." He looked down. "Never mind. I'm sorry to bother you, Miss Won."

I shrugged dismissively. "Yeah. Sure."

"And, also, may I advise something?"

Ah, no.

"I suggest that you take more protein supplements," he said. "I have noticed that you're often suffering from exhaustion from day to day, and you bring over little groceries."

Was this Blondie's way of being a good neighbor? Okay, not only was he doing a terrible job at it, but he was totally nitpicking my refrigerator, intentional or not.

"Gee, thanks," I said, trying to keep my teeth from grinding. "I'll keep that in mind."

I made sure to slam the door a little harder than this morning.

XOXOXOX

The next morning, I was utterly miserable.

I was tired.

I was hungry.

And I totally forgot that essay I had to do over the weekend.

Life sucks.

As I dragged my miserable, miserable, pathetic self out the door, wishing that a meteor crashed onto the building my classes were held in, I almost collided into Blondie.

"Oh, Miss Won," he said.

"Hi," I muttered.

I turned on my heel and was about to walk down the stairs until he called out, "Miss Won, I wanted to know if you would like some cookies that I baked last night. I happened to make an extra too much."

Cookies made by Blondie's magical baking hands? _Heck yes_. Though the man was a total butt sometimes, the few times I tried his baking were the sweetest moments of my life. Second to when Gary Abbas helped pick up my dropped books when we knocked into each other in our first year of college, but still.

Plus, I didn't have breakfast.

"Yes," I said, grinning.

I had better days, but Blondie's food always brightened up my mood.


	2. My Best Friend

**Patriotic**

**SUMMARY:** He's my neighbor, though we don't really talk to each other. That until I found out that he was Captain America. (slow romance build up)

* * *

Aida Jones was my best friend since junior year in high school. All my friendships weren't too meaningful, and Aida's friendships never lasted for too long. I was too recluse, too serious while Aida was too loud, too much of an oddball. We shared the same classes ever since we were freshmen, and became great friends when we were assigned a project together in science class.

Our mutual hatred for science was what sparked our friendship.

"You're, like, so down-to-earth, and I'm so high-in-the-clouds," Aida had told me before. "Like, um… Like water and fire! No—wait, they don't work out. Water and oil? Day and night?"

"Peanut butter and jelly?" I had suggested.

"That's it! Wait, no. Ew. I hate peanut butter. How about French fries and ketchup?"

Of course, though we balanced each other, we had our own set of flaws. I tended to clam-up and be rigid. Aida tended to annoy others by freely singing in the hallways or blurt out things nonsensically. But, after the months had gone by, we had made each other better. I stopped being so stiff while Aida remembered to tone it down. We even became cheerleaders together by encouraging one another (although I dropped out because smiling perpetually before a crowd hurt my cheeks).

Aida stopped being so "weird" before the eyes of others and had developed other friendships with other people. I made a few friends too, but Aida and I were the best of friends. "The bestest of best friends," as she liked to say.

Even when she found out that I harbored a crush on Gary Abbas ever since the beginning of high school and had teased me relentlessly.

When we graduated, we planned on going to the same college that had accepted the both of us—Brooklyn College. Despite it being across the country, we were committed to support one another. Ironically, Gary Abbas attended to the same college, so more teasing was involved.

So I spent the past three years, ongoing on my fourth, with my best friend, admiring Gary Abbas from a distance and never conjuring the courage to confront him, ignoring the disappointed messages my parents send me, continue to abhor my current job, and fail in the process of stopping Aida setting me up in blind dates.

And, of course, Aida knew who Blondie was.

Every other day, she would ask me, "So, how's Blondie doing?" And I would answer in a complaint.

There were enough things to complain about Blondie.

She never met Blondie, though. Every time she visited me, Blondie was always absent, whether it was from running an errand or disappearing for his mystery job or whatever.

I though Aida would never get to see or meet him, until one day when I came to my apartment from work, finding Aida and Blondie outside having a conversation.

"Hi, Scout!" Aida said after noticing me, waving frantically. "If you're wondering why I'm here, I'm running a poll for Harry's homework. Harry didn't have time to do it, so I'm doing it for him."

Harry Williams was Aida's boyfriend for two years; he majored in psychology.

"Oh." I shifted my backpack strap on my shoulder. "What's the poll about?"

"Myers-Briggs Type Indicator; MBTI for short."

Oh. Oh, that.

"You quizzed him?"

"Yup. Your good neighbor here had results going from being an ISTJ, IFTJ, INFJ, ESTJ, aaand ESFJ. Ain't that cool?"

I raised an eyebrow at the multiple results. "How many quizzes did he take?"

"Nine!" she chirped.

"You took that many?" I said, looking at him in surprise. The tests she gave me were long and tedious, and I refused to take any more. Sure, it was interesting to find out how my preferences resulted in my personality, but taking nine of those tests would be just a pain.

He shrugged. "Miss Jones—excuse me, _Aida_ insisted, and I had the time. It was an interesting experience." He must've had a lot of time to spare.

"I'm an ESTP and ESFP," Aida chimed. "Scout's an ISTJ—officially officially. But she only took two tests, so I can't really be sure if she's a concrete ISTJ or not."

"What's an ISTJ like?" Blondie asked curiously (or politely, beats me).

"ISTJ's are workaholics, but I guess they have their procrastinating days, just like Scout here, who's notorious at it. Good listeners, generally quiet, word good as gold unless they're regular liars like Scout." Aida shot me a friendly glare. "I still ain't gonna forgive you for lying about my dead goldfish, Won."

"Duly noted, Jones." Aida never had a goldfish.

She grinned. "Aaand they're robots. Just kidding! But seriously." This caused Blondie to appear confused, but Aida didn't notice to stop to explain. "Oh, and they always think that they're right. Just like Scout."

I frowned. "I don't think that I'm always right."

"Liar—again! What about the time when you said that it was stupid for people to think that zoos are just caging up animals for entertainment?"

"Because it _was_ stupid."

"Proof!" Aida jumped up and down. "Proof! Proof!"

"Aida, there's a difference between common sense and arrogance," I said. "I have common sense; therefore, I usually come up with logical answers that overpower your weak, pathological ones."

"Oh my gosh," Aida gasped, "that was the most arrogant thing that you've said yet. Proof!"

I scowled. "Shut up."

"What about zoos caging animals up?" Blondie interjected, looking puzzled.

Aida jumped right into the topic about animal abuse and whatnot, and I was standing there thinking how ridiculous she was being. Yeah, I'm all up for protecting animals and etcetera, but not _all_ zoos were terrible. Some were quite beneficial. And why wouldn't I want to walk around and take a look at a giraffe or a panda up close?

Well, seeing the pandas in the San Diego Zoo back in California wasn't a fun experience; the stench of turd had hit me hard.

"That's horrible," Blondie finally said, looking mildly aghast.

Great. A convert.

"And I can't believe that you flushed down Aida's goldfish _alive_."

Wait, what?

"Dude, I was joking!" Aida laughed heartily. "Scout wouldn't do that! Well, to _my_ goldfish, but she did it once out of curiosity. She bought one straight from the pet store, and I caught her trying to flush this fish down in her toilet. She said, 'I'm doing an experiment here!', and kept trying to flush it, but the fish went on swimming back up!"

Blondie was now looking at me oddly. "Why would you do such a thing?"

I fidgeted, uncomfortable by his stare. "I was curious, just like she said. I was seventeen with worldly wonders, okay?" That should justify me plainly enough.

"What happened to the goldfish?"

"Fed it to a cat that belonged to the cat lady who lived next to Scout," Aida answered in my place. "The cat just ate it up in one gulp."

For the next week, I had to deal with Blondie shooting me a disapproving look. I could literally hear his eyes asking me, "How would you like being flushed down the toilet several times?" I thanked Aida (dryly) for making me hesitant of going back to my apartment, and Aida laughed, offering me to sleepover at her place till the animal liberalism stage had blown over.


	3. The Outing

**Patriotic**

**SUMMARY:** He's my neighbor, though we don't really talk to each other. That until I found out that he was Captain America. (slow romance build up)

* * *

Blondie's name wasn't really Blondie. When I first moved into the apartment, I met Blondie. He offered to help me transfer my moving boxes inside, and, me being the kind of person who liked free offers, I took the helping hand. It helped that the man had extra muscle on him, otherwise moving in would take much longer than fifteen minutes.

He introduced himself to me, and I did the same. The next day, I forgot what his name was. I think Blondie forgot my first name since he kept calling me "Miss Won"—I guess that makes us even.

If Blondie ever wondered why I never addressed him by name, he never showed it. It didn't really matter since we weren't particularly close; we were just acquaintances. We sometimes exchanged our hi's and bye's, and, though infrequent, exchanged a conversation or two.

It was one day that was just different from all the rest. I came back home from work, all tired and grumpy like usual, and before I would insert the key into the lock, Blondie popped his head out of his door and said, "Oh, hello, Miss Won."

"Hi," I replied.

Strangely, he didn't frown as usual. Instead, there was a perky smile on his face, which was an unfamiliar expression for me because, well, what reason did he have to smile at me? "How was college? Work?"

"Tiring. Tiring," I answered for both.

"I…see."

Silence.

"Was there something that you want?"

Again, there was no frown. Although, his smile shifted into an expression of evident nervousness. "I, um, y-yes, there was something that I wanted to ask of you." He paused, and then let his eyes drift off elsewhere. "Well, Miss Won, we've been neighbors for about four years now, and yet we never seemed to get to know one another, s-so…if you don't mind, that is…"

"Yes…?"

"May I take you out for this evening…?"

I blinked. I thought my mouth had opened to voice a response, but I realized that my lips remained clamped together. I just stood there, staring at Blondie, and he just stood there, still looking nervous except with a pink face. I finally managed to say something.

"For dinner?" I blurted, because I was _such_ a genius.

His eyes went wide, and then he nodded quickly. "Yes. Dinner."

Before anything else would spill out of my mouth, I pursed my lips together and took a moment to think. Knowing myself, I wasn't really much of a conversationalist, and there was a big chance that we would just sit there across from each other in a restaurant in awkward silence, not knowing what to say or do. Then he'd take me back home and we would never speak of it ever again. In fact, we might as well not speak to each other ever again.

Yeah, as if I would put myself in such a situation.

But with Blondie's big blue eyes targeted at me, I couldn't find myself able to make a flat-out refusal. I ended up babbling excuses. "I don't know… I'm really not worth taking up your time. I mean, I'm terrible when it comes to conversations."

"That's alright," he said immediately, his eyes bright, "I'll provide the questions! There's a lot of things I'm curious about you."

That sentence sounded…weird.

"Well, what's there to be curious about?" I couldn't help but ask.

"Like where you've lived before moving in here."

"San Diego, California."

"And…do you miss it?"

"Terribly," I said honestly. "I hate the inconsistent temperatures of Brooklyn; it gets too cold in the winter and too hot in the summer, and in February it gets too wet."

He frowned that same frown I became so used to seeing. "Brooklyn isn't so bad."

"Then you've never been in San Diego before."

"I prefer staying in my hometown, thanks."

"Where the temperature fluctuates drastically as the seasons passes by."

Blondie sighed. "You remind me of a friend, Miss Won."

"Don't call me Miss Won," I said. "If we're going to get to know each other, then call me Scout."

He leveled a look at me before grinning. It was really odd; Blondie's usually not so, uh, happy. But, then again, it's been a while since he came back to his home, so the break must have been gracious to him, and he did seem like the guy who liked sharing his joy with others. "Gladly, if only you call me Steve."

Steve.

"Alright," I said, nodding. "Let me just grab a few things and we'll be on our way."

This was just an outing between two neighbors. It so wasn't a date.

XOXOXOXO

I assumed that this was one of his callings by the good old American bible that might as well be dated back to the forties or something. "Rule number five: Be good to your neighbor no matter who he or she may be." I guess this might entail interrogating your neighbor to the point where you not only know what her favorite color is (it's red, by the way), but you also know that she thinks that inflation is stupid.

It was a really stupid question. I mean, who would ask someone that?

Steve's cheeks went red as his eyes went bright. He then dived into the topic, his tone animated.

I guess he really disliked inflation too.

Then he asked me about my favorite animal and food and whatnot. We really sucked at conversing properly.

"So, Steve, what do you do?" I decided to ask. The night has been going well enough, but I thought that I should at least ask something in return. Despite being his neighbor for four years, I don't know much about him, and I can't say that I'm not curious at all.

Steve looked up me, startled. "Oh, um…" He fiddled with the straw in his drink, avoiding eye contact.

"You don't have to tell me," I said when he failed to answer for the past ten seconds. "I'll accept the fact that you're secretly a superhero."

His back stiffened as he eyed at me with a speculative look.

I coughed into my fist. "It was, um, a joke."

He blinked. "Oh. Right."

And there it was. The awkward silence.

I set my fork to the side and laid my forehead against the table.

"Erm. Miss—Scout, what are you doing?"

"I'm bad at talking," I sighed. "I told you, but you didn't listen to me."

"But… What does that have to do with anything?"

"I made you uncomfortable," I pointed out.

Steve didn't say anything, so I assumed that I had entered rocky waters again. But how was I supposed to know that mentioning superheroes and uncomfortable-ness would trigger his unexplained silence? Unless he's the weird one and I've been perfectly fine this whole time.

"Scout, please look at me?" I heard him say.

I lifted my head reluctantly, and met his earnest blue eyes. "I'm sorry," Steve said with a small smile, "but the topic about superheroes isn't what makes me uncomfortable; talking about my job, however, does."

"Alright," I conceded, sitting up, "we won't talk about it then."

"Really?" He looked doubtful.

"What?"

"I thought you would ask me more questions about it," Steve confessed. I felt mildly offended that he didn't believe me the first time, but pushed away the feeling.

"I admit, I am curious, but if you don't want me to know then it's fine."

"Oh. Thank you, then."

"No problem."

Steve then switched the turn of the conversation by asking me, "So, what's your favorite place about the park?"

We _officially_ sucked at conversations.

XOXOXOX

Steve's questions went from generic to specific. It felt like I was answering a questionnaire.

"What was the name of your high school?"

"Where do you like to eat if you have nothing in your fridge?"

"What would you like to name your pets if you had any?"

"Where did you go when you were in San Diego?"

When he asked me, "Do you like eating Chinese?", I responded, "Are you asking me this because I'm Asian?" Which elicited a reaction of haste apologies and rebuttal. It was starting to get annoying.

"Steve, I'm not offended." Just getting a little tired by your inquisitive nature. "I was just joking."

"Oh." He sighed in evident relief. "That's good."

After having me answer a couple more questions, Steve then told me that he didn't appreciate my blatant pessimism.

"Scout, I think you should have a more optimistic view in life."

See?

I decided to respond this by saying, "What if my pessimism keeps me grounded? Gives me a _realistic_ view in life?"

Steve frowned. "I think you could have a better alternative."

Talking with Steve wasn't very enjoyable anymore. "Is that so?"

"It is so."

Okay, what was this? The stem of a childish argument that's about to erupt? "Great."

"Scout," he said seriously, "I'm serious."

Never mind. It wasn't an argument; it was another lecture from "mother".

And, so, on the way home, I was victimized by Steve's yammering of moral codes and patriotism. He didn't actually mention anything that had any relation to patriotism, but the way he delivered his "speech" might as well be the sole equivalent to John F. Kennedy's address. So deep. So emotional. Sob sob sob.

It wasn't that I underappreciated the guy caring for my wellbeing, but it was getting exasperating to hear him over and over again. And it's not like I was doing anything _so_ bad, other than nourishing my body with TV dinners and sleeping up to four hours until Sundays. And I have no idea what he was talking about concerning my "pessimism." I can be plenty optimistic!

It's just that keeping up with that sunny disposition of thought is hard.


	4. Crush

**Patriotic**

**SUMMARY:** He's my neighbor, though we don't really talk to each other. That until I found out that he was Captain America. (slow romance build up)

* * *

I first met Gary Abbas the first day of my high school year. I was a freshman, shy and awkward and naïve, and had entered my English class. The teacher placed a seating arrangement chart projected by the overhead; my seat was somewhere in the middle row.

Moving to my seat, there was a boy hunched over the desk, obviously immersed in whatever he was doing, with his elbows propped outwards and his head lowered. His hand gripped a pencil and moved with careful precision. I didn't want to bother him, but he was taking up most of the desk and I had two bulky binders in my arms.

I found myself standing there, hovering over him. It was then that the bell had ringed, the students had flooded the room, and the teacher had walked in. Scared to be called out by the teacher, I hastily pulled the chair out with my foot and dropped my binders onto the desk. This startled the boy.

"Crap," he hissed. There was a long pencil mark across the picture he was drawing—it was Captain America.

"Sorry," I whispered guiltily.

"No, it—it's alright," he sighed. He looked up at the board. "Scout Won?"

"Yes."

"What kind of name is Scout?"

"Uh—"

"No talking," the teacher snapped. We ducked our heads, abashed.

As months had passed by, Gary and I grew closer. Not quite as friends, but definitely more than acquaintances. He was one of the first people who I had genuinely come to like. Even if all he did was pontificate about superheroes and his dream to go to a graphic arts program, I grew fonder of him and became eager to head for English.

Initially, he struck me as a typical nerd—get good grades, yet have no social life outside his circle of fellow comic fanboy friends. But he was more than that. Gary was funny, nice, and friendly. Everyone liked him. The guys joked around with him, and the girls were charmed by him. Soon enough, I realized that I was one of those girls.

I could say that I had fallen for his light brown eyes and lopsided grin. I could say that his tousled hair just made him look cute, and how could a girl ever resist a guy with the perfect tan? I could say that I liked him all because he happened to be the first boy who ever liked talking to me.

But it wasn't about those things.

Gary Abbas did have those qualities that made him, well, attractive, yeah. But the main reason why I had fallen for him was because the way he made me feel like me.

He didn't see me as an Asian American who got straight A's just because she felt obligated by a stupid stereotype or expectant parents. He didn't label me as a pushover just because I was quiet. He didn't care if I happened to keep to myself. He didn't judge me at all.

And he didn't make fun of me when I could only speak English or didn't play an instrument. One, I _did_ try to learn Korean, but it was hard to when you're either not being graded on it or you just don't really care; two, I hate learning instruments, mainly because my old piano teacher made me cry in eighth grade. My guitar teacher was a total jerk, enough said.

Another reason was because he made me smile.

And then sophomore year came.

Gary Abbas and I were now in different classes. We hardly got to see each other, but there were times when I caught a glimpse of him from afar. In tenth grade, he decided to play basketball, and he was amazing at it. For a guy who was as short as me, he undergone a startling growth spurt, now a whopping six foot. Because of this, he captured attention from the girls like never before.

Then there was one time when we did speak to each other, but the moment was transient.

"Hey… Scout, right?" he said.

We were waiting in line in the cafeteria, and I just so happened to be standing in front of Gary Abbas. I looked at him, thoughts running in my head, and said, "Yeah."

He grinned. "It's me, Gary! Gary Abbas, from English last year, remember?"

How could I forget?

"How have you been doing?" he asked.

"Pretty good," I lied, and then added a shrug. "How about you?"

"I'm alright. Haven't seen you in, like, forever. I missed those days where you put up with me rambling on about Superman."

At this, I couldn't help but smile. "There's no comparison to Captain America, though."

Gary laughed. "That's true."

I was about to ask him if he was still aiming to be a graphic artist, but a girl walked up and cut in front of him. She then threw her arms around his neck and peppered his face with kisses. "Hey, Gary!"

"Hey there." Gary smiled at her, and then to me he said, "Scout, this is my girlfriend, Amy. Amy, this is Scout."

Immediately, I wanted to run away. But I couldn't. Not in front of Gary.

Amy turned around and smiled. "Hi."

"Hi," I responded, forcing a smile of my own.

We were walking slowly as the line moved, no one saying anything. Then Amy started talking about what happened in her class, complaining about her teacher and the test she took, and Gary tried to make jokes to get her laughing. I tried to distance myself from them as far as possible.

I finished my sophomore year with a sepulchral attitude, and when summer had gone by, I began my first day as a junior by pissing off my dad _just_ because I didn't finish my summer essay in time.

First day as a junior, and I found out that Gary Abbas happened to share a few of my classes.

But he never spoke to me.

I began to harbor resentment towards him. How could he just ignore me like this? Was I suddenly someone not worth talking to? Did I not matter anymore? What about those days when we laughed and shared stories and I had to put up with his blabbering? Didn't our memories mean anything to him?

But I could have gone up to him. I could have said "Hi!", and, who knows? We could've ended up as friends and, somewhere along the way, ended up as something more.

But I could never approach him. I wasn't like that. I was self-conscious—no one was interested in a girl who occupied her time reading and studying, a girl who couldn't express herself freely, a girl who was recluse. I didn't want to imitate the loud and preppy girls in my school, but I was highly aware that I had zero chance in getting anyone's attention, and Gary Abbas wasn't an exception.

My anger burned out, and I grew depressed.

Aida Jones, who later became my friend, had pointed out my crush on Gary Abbas. I didn't even know that it was a crush until she said something.

For three years, I liked Gary Abbas.

Then, when I became a senior, it went for four years.

And then you could expect my crush ongoing when I found out that he was attending the same college in Brooklyn.

I was on my eighth year on crushing on Gary Abbas, and, to be honest, I wished it would stop.


	5. The Assignment

**Patriotic**

**SUMMARY:** He's my neighbor, though we don't really talk to each other. That until I found out that he was Captain America. (slow romance build up)

* * *

Despite having two immigrant Korean parents, I didn't know how to speak in Korean at all. I would say it was because I was unmotivated to learn it, but it was probably more so that I leaned to English. I had always loved writing stories that went on and on and on about adventures and dragons and robots and monsters hiding under the bed. Reading was my favorite pastime. Learning a new set of vocabulary was fulfilling.

I figured that I would be a writer when I was older, going back to my freshman days in high school. It was pretty much the only thing I was good at. I tried playing the piano and guitar; I tried entering extra curricular activities; I did anything that would help broaden my perception and perhaps gain a new interest, yet I only ended up indifferent about these things and went back to reading and writing.

So, you could imagine my repressed excitement when the professor assigned us a hundred-thousand word fictional story. For the past three years, all we've been doing was analyzing and finding the rhetorical structures and writing _essays, essays_, and more _essays_. It was _killing_ me, and now the good man had decided to place mercy on us by assigning us tenth grade work!

So, even though the rest of the students don't agree with my viewpoint, I'd say that this was going to great!

That until I had writer's block.

Thus, what do I normally do when I'm in turmoil?

I sulk.

No, not really, but something close to it.

Becky Wellington was an acquaintance from the same clothes department that I work in. For the most part, I sacrifice my good time by listening to her complaints about boyfriends, party invites, clothes in her walk-in wardrobe (as I imagine it to be), and so on. So, if we were to take this in a non-friendship kind of way, I would be her therapist.

From the moment I entered the store, Becky scrutinized my face and sighed, "Okay, what'd you kill this time?"

"Why does it go back with me killing something?" I hadn't killed anything, but apparently I look like I had every time I'm upset, according to Becky.

"What is it? Did you forget to turn in another essay?" she said, following me to the locker rooms.

"No," I muttered.

"Then…?"

"We were assigned to make up a story, but I don't know what to write."

"And, yet again, we have another Won crisis," Becky said, feigning horror while waving her arms in the air. "Terrible."

"You know what I love about you?" I said. "I just love the way you're just all about rainbows and butterflies. You just have this glow to you that makes you a total angel. But you know what else? You're not. You're not just all about rainbows and butterflies; you're actually a cold-hearted demon, so you might as well just stop."

"Scout, you just contradicted yourself," she pointed out flatly.

"I know." I once said this to Steve a year ago, and in response all he did was look very perplexed and hurt. It was the funniest thing I've ever got out of Blondie—the perplexed part, I mean. The hurt part, I felt a bit guilty about that. Just a bit.

The locker room was a dingy, gray small section of the department. I heard Becky complain about it countless of times and those countless times I always agreed with her no matter how redundant it gets. But the uniforms were the worst: Who ever heard of plaid skirts with dress vests? I may not be an expert on fashion (for I live on anything baggy, just saying), but I know when things are worth puke, and that combo was worth puke.

Also, Becky included her quite necessary commentary about fifty gazillion times.

"Oh, gosh, I'm starving," I muttered as I pulled out a huge bag of Cheetos that I had time to buy out of my backpack. I didn't eat breakfast because my apartment was despairingly empty. Additionally, I'm kind of low on cash… But, the good news was that my Cheetos were the puffy kind, and I loved the puffy kind.

"So, you remember when Jeremy asked me out?" Becky said casually.

"Shouldn't you be doing your work?"

"I'll get to it once you're done changing. Anyway, Jeremy took me to this cute little café, right? It had these little round tables and decorations and stuff," she said, and then filched my Cheetos. "And then Jeremy pulls out this gorgeous, gorgeous bracelet. I mean, the thing was studded with sapphires and rubies and things like that."

"Uh huh," I said around a mouthful of Cheetos.

At first impression, you would think that Becky was your typical mean girl. The evidence lied upon her pretty face, her colloquial lingo, and flippant attitude. Frankly, I disliked her the first time I met her, already prognosticating how my cooperation with my fellow employee would be. I expected her to dump all her work on me, the new girl, and lean on the counter, filing her perfect nails.

Well, in actuality, she happened to be rather nice. Still that archetypal catty person sort of way, but she was more than that. I also learned that if I pretended to care about what she says, then I won't ram into trouble, like how Victoria and Becky butted heads a few months ago when Victoria told her to shut up.

Scariest cat fight ever.

"And, like, he then said that he was so happy to have me here, and it was hardly the sweetest thing he had said yet. I'd get a cavity from the sugary crap he spills out, but maybe more so knowing that all he says are all genuine."

Yeah, and you said the same thing about Jonathan. Now look what happened.

"That's cute," I said. I pulled the skirt up to my waist and tucked in the collared shirt in. "Do you know when he's going to ask you again?"

"Tomorrow. He was pretty bummed that he couldn't come over today, but you know how busy I am."

"Yup."

Once I finished changing, we headed out to our work stations and began doing what we always do. I usually fold the clothes and help find the customers what sizes they prefer. For something that sounds simple, it really wasn't. And it's often too loud in here too: You have women chatting and chatting, and their kids run around while screaming their heads off, and not to mention the occasional arguments stemmed from who gets the cardigan or the spring dress or the shoes.

It goes back to the ladies.

Of course, the department has male customers too, but you don't see them expel unlimited gallons of carbon dioxide into the air or scream their heads off or fight to the death for a piece of cloth.

XOXOXOX

Riding the bus on my way home, I tried to think of what should I write for my story. The stories I wrote in the past were usually cheesy love stories. I admit, I devoured those things like how I would to a veggie burrito back then. I also liked writing about adventures like the main character would go on in Pokemon, except I don't include the Pokemon in there.

When I couldn't think of anything, I grew rather frustrated. It was as if all that creativity I had crafted for years and years throughout life's work of tales and fantasies had vanished into thin air. I used to be able to _know_ what to write, already having an anecdote playing in my head. Now, my head was filled with an image of a blank piece of paper.

It was seriously depressing.

I didn't even feel like walking up the stairs to my apartment. I just stood there with my backpack hanging on my shoulder.

"Scout?" Steve entered my peripheral vision—hoorah. "Why are you glaring at the building?" he asked with a raised brow.

I frowned. "I wasn't glaring." Because if I was, then that would be weird.

"I'm sorry to say this, but, yes, you were."

"Alright then." I adjusted the strap of my backpack and walked to the stairs. Not that I did I with intentions of being blatantly rude or anything, but talking to Steve suddenly made me want to get inside my home before this _conversation_ would alternate into me being reprimanded for whatever reasons. I have heavy suspicion that Blondie just might be a perfectionist. Well, what do you know? I'm so very imperfect. Maybe that's why we don't exactly get along well.

Even though we don't talk to each other much.

Steve, who either ignored or wasn't offended by my dismissive action, followed me up the stairs. Darn.

"Who flipped your wig?" he asked.

I blinked. My hand automatically went for a strand on my shoulder. "I… This is my real hair."

"No, I mean…" He shook his head. "Never mind. Why are you upset?"

"Oh." I passed by his door, having stripes and stars in mind, and pulled out my key from my pocket. "I'm not," I lied, inserting the key in the lock.

"If you weren't upset, then you wouldn't have made that face."

"I was just thinking."

"Scout."

Uh oh. That was the mommy tone.

"I'm having writer's block, so I don't know what to write for my assignment," I sighed, looking at the sky.

"I see," Steve said. "What's your assignment about?"

"Making up a story."

"I don't see why it'd be too hard. I reckon you're an imaginative sort of person."

Oh my gosh, did he think that I could _not_ see right through that? He was obviously trying to "cheer" me up by saying that. I really hate it when people do say things noncommittally, especially when they don't know me all too well (Blondie). What's the point of complimenting when there's no connotation reinforcing it?

"Yeah. Right." I opened the door, and, without giving him another glance, I said, "Good night," and went inside and closed the door.

* * *

**AN:** Notes, notes, notes, notes!

Number one, Scout Won is a 21-year-old Korean American girl (she's going for 22).

Number two, Steve Rogers is a 27-year-old American American.

Number three, the Chitari invasion happened when, I'm guessing, Steve was 23. THAT was the time BEFORE Scout had moved into Brooklyn.

Number four, Scout isn't even close to being _kind of_ athletic, isn't incredibly intelligent (watch it, you stereotypers), isn't dazzlingly gorgeous, has powers, is a mutant, or has a terrible past where Steve would pour all his sympathy (pity) onto her. No. Scout is an average, average girl. Average in every single way. Average.

AND number five, Scout doesn't know anything about Korea. She looks Korean, she ate Korean food throughout her childhood because of her parents, BUT she isn't some kind of representation of Korea, okay? Oh, and for those who like to joke, her parents are from SOUTH Korea.


	6. All-Nighters

**Patriotic**

**SUMMARY:** He's my neighbor, though we don't really talk to each other. That until I found out that he was Captain America. (slow romance build up)

* * *

It'd be like pioneering unknown land, the possibility of a metaphorical bear or lion or mongoose to pop up and eat your face off. But I pushed away my hesitation and ventured inside McDonalds (_dun dun dun_).

It wasn't the food that I was afraid of, or the staff, or the customers—except for one (though he shouldn't be considered as one). There was this man who usually hung around McDonalds, inside or outside. I stopped going there because he creeped me out. One side of his face was slanted—it looked really off. He wore baggy and torn clothes, had his hair unkempt, and smelled raunchy; if you stand at least a foot close to him, you'll end up vomiting in your mouth.

The number one creep factor was that he talked to himself nonsensically in a breathy whisper. Why didn't the manager kick him out, I don't know. I mean, it's not like the man buys the food—he just stands there, taking up space. And it also amazes me that the place still has customers despite the guy creeping them all out.

He reminded me of a hobo that I once saw in Ocean Beach.

Even though I didn't want to go to McDonalds, Aida said that if I bought her a Big Mac she'd help me with my assignment. Aida was the most creative person I know, probably already have a movie playing her head. Not only could she conjure imaginations without having to ponder, but she was an excellent actress, excelling in theatrics as her major.

Because I had gone two days without coming up with something and the assignment was due in four days, I was downright desperate for an idea. To my luck, Aida was free for the rest of the week. I buy this burger, and I'm good to go.

Trying not to spin on my heel and walk straight out the door took a lot of willpower. The man was there, standing in the corner of McDonalds. I made sure not to look in his direction; it wasn't as if he noticed the attention he was receiving (definitely from those who hadn't gone to _this_ McDonalds), but just _looking_ at him gave me goosebumps.

I got in line, bought the burger, waited for the burger to be made, and then walked out as fast as my feet could carry me.

XOXOXOX

"Took you long enough," Aida said by the time I made it to my apartment. She was sprawled across my couch, gorging herself to my chips. "I was worried that you were being mugged or something."

"No, of course not. Take your food, you pig." The food that I had sacrificed myself getting for. She better be appreciative.

"Yay!" She snatched the bag and inhaled deeply. "Oh man, that's good stuff."

"You look like you're snorting cocaine," I commented, grabbing my laptop from the counter and sitting next to her.

"Might as well be. I'm addicted to this. Do you know my terrible withdrawals? Horrible, horrible imps they are." She eagerly unwrapped the Big Mac and took a big chomp out of it, moaning with a mouthful. "Oh yeaaah! That's the good stuff. You should probably leave me and the burger alone, Scout. We might get ourselves pretty dirty here."

"Not on my couch," I deadpanned. "And that's the last time I'll ever buy you anything. Should I remind you the gaping hole in my wallet?"

"Well, gee, thanks, pal, for the delicious food that had brought happiness to my tummy. I shall never, ever burden you again." Aida started bouncing. "Never, ever, ever~! Getting back together~!"

"Stop it with the Taylor Swift. Help me!"

"Alright, alright."

For the past hour, Aida helped me with my story. She offered ideas, and I turned those ideas into a story in progress. So far, I had typed at least four pages—nowhere near a hundred-thousand words, but at least I was getting somewhere. Eventually, Aida spoke. I didn't expect her to be able to keep silent forever.

"By the way," she said, "Blondie's name is Steve."

"Yeah, I know."

"Hold up, you _know_?"

I looked at her; she was giving me a look of disbelief, her brow shot up and her lips pulled to the side. "Yeah, I knew."

"Why didn't you tell me? Ugh, Scout, it's like when you never told me that you loved Mexican food. Do you know how many joints we could've gone?" she said.

"Plenty. Anyway, it's not like the topic ever came to mind." I shrugged. "Not like it matters."

"Yeah, that's true, I guess," she muttered.

"Anyway, I gotta say, I didn't think he'd be one to tell his name to strangers. For someone who's usually so uptight, you'd think he'd be one to preserve a confidential policy."

"What is he, five? C'mon, Scout! The guy may be straitlaced as you described him to be, but Steve ain't all that bad. He's a chill guy, and not to mention utterly _hot_. Why didn't you tell me that he was hot? He was drool-worthy hot. I still couldn't believe that he was the supposedly awful Blondie you always told me about. From how you said it, I thought Blondie would be a middle-aged man with a rotund belly, not an Adonis."

I looked at the ceiling. "Maybe I was trying to keep Harry from being jealous?"

"I admit, Harry got nothing on Steve," Aida noted. "But Steve's got nothing on Harry when it comes to being the bestestest boyfriend in the history of boyfriends!"

"He's your second boyfriend you ever had," I pointed out. Her first was in high school, and it was the biggest drama I had ever the displeasure to deal with. The drama was Aida, and she was a wet mess after the breakup.

"So? His fabulousness corresponds awesomely with mine!"

Can't deny that. They do have good chemistry together.

Aida helped me until it was about ten. She left with a cheery goodbye, took my chips with her, and walked out the door. I heard her say a loud "Heya, Steve!" I guess Steve came back from his work. Two days? That has got to be the shortest absence he ever made.

I returned to the couch after locking the door and propped the laptop on my thighs, ready to type. My fingers danced across the keyboard with a consecutive pace; I was now fueled with the tale that I immersed myself with. It was exciting; it was like the old times when I could go on and on with this and never stop until it was finished.

But as I continued to type, I began to nod off. I blinked and shook my head harshly, trying to stir myself back to consciousness. I checked the time, and it read two. I should sleep now, otherwise I would start snoozing in my classes, but I didn't want to stop either, not when I was on a roll. I knew that if I saved my work and go to bed now, I would lose the invigoration of my thoughts.

I scratched my head. What should I do?

And one word popped up in my head: Caffeine.

No, not coffee. Coffee gave me the heaviest crashes.

So, instead of coffee, I'd get myself a 5-Hour Energy—never had one of those, but I heard that they worked.

I grabbed a jacket and my keys, and went out. To my luck, the convenience store had packages in stock. I bought four, and went on my way back home.

Curious, I tore the package and peeled the plastic wrapping off of one bottle, opened the cap, and took a sniff, cringing at its medicinal smell. If it tasted like how it smelled, I swear I'll puke.

I took a quick swig, swallowed at its bitter berry taste, and waited. Nothing happened.

What the heck? And I paid twenty dollars for these things?

XOXOXOX

The next morning, I was dead tired.

I stayed up for the whole night. Apparently, the 5-Hour Energy worked. I drank a couple.

There was no crash, but the weariness was inevitable.

I drank two more bottles before taking a quick shower and going out for classes.

Steve was there, and he gave me a frown.

"Scout," he said, "you hadn't slept at all."

"Okay," I said, and passed him. Floated. I think I floated past him.

I don't think I should ever pull all-nighters ever again.

XOXOXOXO

I bought more bottles, and did, in fact, pull another one. I had done eighteen pages now.

The next morning, Steve frowned at me again.

"Scout," he said.

"Morn," I said, not bothering to completely say "Morning" because I didn't feel like it.

"Scout," I heard him say behind me.

Whoa. I didn't even know that I was walking.

XOXOXOXO

When I came back home, Aida and Steve were there.

I shouldn't have given her the key to my apartment.

"Don't worry, I told him to take off his shoes before entering," she said, giving me the thumbs-up. "I know how much of a big deal it is for you to not bring dirt inside your lovely abode."

"Gee, thanks," I grumbled. "But I don't think that you were given permission to bring guests."

"Maybe you shouldn't have given me the key in the first place."

"I should revoke your privileges."

"Welcome back, Scout," Steve greeted formally.

"Hi." Deciding that I should just do what I normally do, I dropped my backpack to the floor, unplugged my laptop that was recharging on the counter, and sat on the couch next to Aida, who was sitting next to Steve.

"Sit up, please," Steve said.

You gotta be kidding me. I do not "sit up".

I sat up, anyway.

"So, Scout, Steve here had been telling me about your all-nighters," Aida said conversationally, leaning towards me. "And I think that you should stop."

"No," I replied.

"Well, I tried." She grinned at Steve. "Your turn."

He sighed. "Yes, at least you tried," he muttered.

For thirty minutes, Steve made me set my laptop to the side and gave me a speech about why sleeping regularly was important, and why this and why that, and blah blah blah blah. I tuned him out the first ten minutes, and I think Aida did too. She started picking on a loose thread on her shirt.

When I heard "So, now do you understand?" I nodded and grabbed my laptop, rebooting it. I felt his stare weigh heavy on me.

"How about you pull away from the machine and take a nap?" he said lightly, but there was a frown on his face.

"How about you leave me alone?" I snapped, exasperated. Who did he think he was? "It's not too hard to accomplish that, now is it?"

Steve's frown became more profound. "Miss Won," he said in a caveat tone.

Wow, this was degrading. My neighbor acting like my mom—_again_. Not to mention how annoying this was. He wasn't this annoying when I only knew him as Blondie.

I then decided to enter dangerous waters. Why did I do such a thing? It was because Steve was getting on my nerves, and today was not a day where I would tolerate his mothering. So I scrunched up my face (I tried to scowl) and spat out, "Blondie."

Aida's eyes went wide.

Unfortunately, it didn't make much of an effect than what I had expected. Steve just sighed and said, "Very mature."

Well, I would have addressed him as Mr. LastNameThatIDoNotKnow, but his last name is what that I do not know. Who knew how much of loss in an argument you can make when you don't know his last name?

"_Whatever_," I grumbled, slouching in my seat _because I can_. "If you're going to stay here, at least make yourself useful by getting me a water bottle from the fridge."

Steve huffed huffily, but did so anyway.

"I didn't think he'd actually do it," I murmured when he left.

"I can't believe you called him Blondie," Aida gasped. "Do you realize that you broke it? Your secret? Now you can never go back! Never go back to rewind the past all because you made a slip and let him know that pet-name you gave him in private. I'm so ashamed of you, Scout; not a single romantic bone in your body, missy!"

"Yes, because I had always harbored deep and intensive feelings for him," I deadpanned.

"Aww, how cute! We should _totally_ go on a double date, then! You and Steve with me and Harry! It'd be, like, two Californian gals hanging out with their cute New York boyfriends, chilling out and walking along the beach and all that hackneyed stuff that I dig."

Aida began singing to the lyrics of_ California Gurls_ by Katy Perry. The song then made me wonder if every other state portrayed all Californians as tree huggers, movie stars (Hollywood is just _out there_, okay?), and surfers. Some people (Becky, for example) had bombarded me with questions about how it was like in California. Did I even _have_ the time to go on a global quest? No. I stayed in my little house in good old San Diego.

And when they learned that, they said that I didn't look Mexican.

Okay, just because San Diego is nearby the border of Mexico does not mean that the entire population consists of Mexicans.

Just a good amount.

Steve then came back. He handed me the water bottle. He then told me to sit up again.

"No," I said.

Steve frowned. Again. "You know slouching like that would be bad for your back."

"Well, too bad," I retorted, frowning back. "It's my apartment, therefore my rules. You managed to not bring dirt to the carpet, so why can't you follow this rule?"

"What rule? The 'sit however you like even though you could potentially get a hunched back for the rest of your life' rule?"

Yikes.

"Yes, that. Now, go do whatever. I have work to do." But before my fingertips could touch the keyboard, Steve grabbed the laptop off my lap.

"Scout, you haven't slept in two days. Look at you, the bags under your eyes has bags!" he exclaimed. "You need to go to sleep."

I paused. Did he take a reference from Spongebob Squarepants?

"Did you just quote from Squidward?" I blurted.

He looked at me blankly. "What?"

Ugh, I don't need this. "Give me the laptop."

"Scout!"

"I'm serious."

"Well, I am too."

"You two are like a married couple," Aida suddenly commented. "Except Steve's the nagging wife and you're the lazy husband."

How am I lazy?

Steve gave Aida a puckered brow. "I do not nag," he protested. Then, his face turned red. "Wait, what?"

Aida grinned. "I think 'married couple' registered into his brain."

* * *

**AN:** I'm not intentionally making Steve the nagging, annoying neighbor who picks on Scout because he's a perfectionist, but that's Scout's first impression of him after getting to know him bit by bit.


	7. A Few Good Things

**Patriotic**

**SUMMARY:** He's my neighbor, though we don't really talk to each other. That until I found out that he was Captain America. (slow romance build up)

* * *

There were a few things that I like about Blondie.

I liked how he was polite. I mean, how often do you see guys walking little old ladies across the street? Or open the door for someone to pass through? Or give up change to the church? Or not let eyes stray a bit too low where the cleavage is?

I liked how he was conservative of himself. He didn't let big ideas alternate who he was, and maintained a golden rule of moral conduct.

I liked how he disliked rap. Anyone's alright in my book if he or she can't stand rap.

But most of all, I liked how he could bake the tastiest things on earth.

The first time I had one of his baked goods was three years ago. Steve was volunteering at some kind of elementary school that needed donations for their fundraiser—a baked sale. I remember coming home from college (I didn't have a job at the time) and saw him carrying off bags of sugar, flour, and chocolate chips, and an egg carton, a bottle of vanilla extract—anything necessary on how to make cookies.

I assumed that it was a fluke, being that his cookies were magically yummy from his first try. But awesome cookies from a beginner? He could have had learned to bake from his mom when he was younger or something. I don't know. But what I do know was that, from that time before, there was something different about him that could part him from the typical of men.

You'd think that Steve would be even by the slightest embarrassed having to lower his masculine level, showing up to the bake sale and telling the moms there that he brought cookies that he made (I wasn't there, but I'm pretty sure that the moms swooned). Or that he would partake in conversations with old ladies while knit sweaters with them (I still have the one that he made and gave to me). Or how about tearing up a bit during the movie Titanic?—just kidding about that one.

Not that I know Steve could be the sensitive type, but there's a possibility.

Furthermore, what really reinforced his difference from other men was the fact that he was nosy. Now, not nosy as in he liked to get into other peoples' business for the thrill of it, but more like a mom. And, yes, after realizing the comparisons, that was how I came up with Blondie being the "mom". Other than the looks that he would give me, or the tone, or the… You get the idea.

How many men do you know who would mother-hen you? For me, not a whole lot.

Aida? She says, "Heck no."

Becky? "Such a guy doesn't exist."

The thought that a guy who would genuinely worry about you is rather flattering. The only problem is that it can be quite annoying.

His baking skills save him from being a complete bother.


	8. Bad Days

**Patriotic**

**SUMMARY:** He's my neighbor, though we don't really talk to each other. That until I found out that he was Captain America. (slow romance build up)

* * *

The coffee machine incident.

Happened a while back. Blondie was even involved.

Never to be spoken ever again on Aida's behalf.

But sometimes I would mention it for the sweet taste of revenge.

You may not know this but I'm actually a spiteful person.

Mwuahahaha.

Though Blondie would reprimand me, and I'd grow irritable.

* * *

Speaking of bad days, once upon a time, I got out of work early. Why so early? Because I was freaking fired, _that's why_.

It was all Becky Wellington's fault.

Don't worry, she got fired too.

Becky was eating a breakfast burrito while having an animated conversation with a customer. She was gesticulating wildly, and then the burrito slipped from her hand and ka-splat onto the floor. The manager was walking with arms full of boxed shoes and stepped right on the burrito; he slipped and fell backwards, and all the boxes dropped on him. Being the witness, I couldn't help but snort at the absurdity (it was like watching a cheesy sitcom), which was heard by the manager, who immediately got pissed.

So, I was fired for my "rudeness towards authority", and Becky was fired for "eating on the job". She totally was eating on the job. I don't know why I gave her quotes.

"This sucks ass," Becky said for the umpteenth time.

"Why are you following me home?" I decided to finally ask.

"Because I've got three hours to blow until Jaime would pick me up."

So it was Jaime now.

At that moment, all I wanted to do was scream at Becky. I could try to assuage the situation by thinking how great it was to be finally free from the department store that I hated walking into day by day, but the fact that I now had to find another job (which could take _forever_) and the time to find another job (hence _forever_) just made me mad. And Becky? Becky doesn't even care beyond the shallow end of her situation.

And she won't stop talking.

ARGH.

Then my luck continued when we came upon a woman holding the hand of a little boy. Her hair and clothes was in disarray as she looked around in a panicked manner. I was reluctant approaching my apartment with a frantic lady there; anything could happen.

Anything did happen when her eyes landed on us. A relieved smile spread across her face as she hurried towards us, the kid in tow. "Excuse me! Excuse me!" the woman called. "I hate to be a bother, but would you mind terribly if you did me a favor, please?"

Why didn't I walk around a corner? Or stop to buy a hotdog? To be honest, I'm not a generous person by nature, especially towards people. In fact, I don't really like people in general. This would exemplify my exhaustion for humankind, meeting obligations for the needy, and I'm just about to pull a selfish act of saying "Sorry, but I'm busy doing whatever" when Becky opened her mouth.

"What do you need?"

"My other son wandered off, but I don't want to drag Timmy with me. If you would be so kind as to watch over him…"

"Sure thing," Becky said, shrugging her shoulders.

And that was when I found myself standing outside of my apartment, stuck with Becky (who suddenly discovered that she has some sort of vendetta towards kids) and Timmy.

Oh my gosh, I hate the east coast.

Not that this was a typical occurrence or anything—you know, moms dumping their kids to total strangers, but things like this just make me dislike New York more and more, like the occasional profanity blurts you hear on the streets (don't they know there are children around?) or the bad guys who like to pop up from time to time and the Avengers need to take them out. The excitement and action are great, but I don't want to risk being the unlucky bystander who gets crushed by falling rubble when the Hulk comes smashing by.

The weather is atrocious, by the way. Actually, weather all around is bad. Why can't the world be in permanent room temperature? No more farmers' tans, no more hypothermia, no more global warming… You get the message. The world would be a much better place. Without global warming.

Anyway, I digress. So, I'm stuck with Becky and Timmy.

"Did I mention I have a vendetta towards kids?" Becky said again. "Yeah, well, I'll mess things up. You'll be alright without me, yeah? Of course you will. You're awesome with kids. Well, I'm just gonna go. Bye."

And now it was me and Timmy.

Timmy seemed to be around the age of seven. Or six. Five? I don't know. He had scruffy brown hair, and was wearing a Power Ranger shirt. He also had a perpetual scowl on his face, which made me wonder if he was going to erupt into a tantrum or give me the cold shoulder until his mother gets back. Beats me, but I sure hope that it'd be the latter.

I don't even know why Becky assumed that I was great with kids.

Kids were… Well, kids were alright, but I'm not the type to know how to handle them. I'm not exactly the mothering type, unlike Aida who absolutely _adores_ kids and would go to the extent of making a clown of herself just to make one kid smile. I admit, I'm just awkward around them.

At around this time, Steve showed up, as I expected. He shot me a curious look before asking, "What are you doing, Miss Won?"

"Scout," I corrected. Old habits die hard, I guess.

Two pink spots colored his cheeks. "Scout," he managed.

"A lady gave me her son so she could find her other one."

"Oh." His blush disappeared as he gave a small smile. "Want help?"

"I don't know," I began. "Could you?" Because Steve definitely looks the part of being a nanny. Actually, I wouldn't doubt if he happened to be an expertise in taking care of children. After all, the tall and buff blonde happened to like taking care of geezers from the retirement home. And feeding the homeless and playing with orphans and giving shelter dogs walks. Just saying.

"Don't worry, I'm great with kids."

Knew it.

"Is that so?"

"Mothers used to hand me their kids all the time. Just between you and me, I once was pretty famous in Broadway."

Holy crud, Blondie made a joke.

I gave an involuntary giggle—which I couldn't help because him making a joke was so unexpected—and that made Steve grin.

"I made you laugh," he exclaimed proudly.

"Why do you sound so surprised?" I snorted.

"Well, it's not every day you get to make Scout Won laugh."

Or maybe it's because I got to see this other side of Steve McStiffpants.

Steve knelt down to Timmy's height and grinned. "Hey, lil' guy! What's your name?"

If possible, Timmy's scowl just made an even more prominent downward turn. I stifled a snicker.

"He's just shy," I offered, because seeing Steve disheartened by the kid's reaction was a bit sad. Like, puppy dog eyes sad.

"I guess you're right," he said. He placed a large hand on Timmy's head and gave a pat.

Timmy retaliated by opening his mouth and clamping his teeth onto Steve's fingers.

I burst out into guffaws.

None of my bad days ended as hilariously as this.


	9. The Laptop

**Patriotic**

**SUMMARY:** He's my neighbor, though we don't really talk to each other. That until I found out that he was Captain America. (slow romance build up)

* * *

I have plenty of pet peeves, but I'll only address to five.

One: When people only want to hear what they want to hear. When people ask you, "Just tell me the truth!" and you tell them the truth, they wrinkle their faces at you and go to someone else who can butter up reality for them. And, guess what? They take that buttered reality as _truth_ because it makes sense to _them_. It makes them sound like they're the good guys instead of being the ones who need to fix their own issues.

It's like when Aida's ex-boyfriend carelessly commented on the amount of eyeliner she wore. Aida went up to me and asked if she had put too much, and I said yes (because she resembled a raccoon). Not liking how I was apparently siding with her ex, she texted someone, who texted back saying that she looked beautiful just the way she was.

"Ha! He's just being a jerk to me," Aida had crowed. "And so-and-so is a much better friend than you, Scout!"

When I told her that she looked like a raccoon, she said that I looked like an Asian. It took me thirty seconds to realize that she was trying to snap back at me in a non-offensive way. Still, Aida was stupid for not listening to my accountabilities.

Two: When people brush their problems under the rug (metaphorically). When a problem arises, what do these people do? They just "go with the flow," as Aida likes to term it. But what are they really doing? They are _running away_ from the situation because they don't want to deal with or confront it.

Going with the flow? Puh-lease.

The only way to solve the problem is to tackle it head on. You just can't expect the problem to vanish by ignoring it—the problem is still _there_. Like brushing crap under the rug. The crap is not going anywhere—it's still under the rug, in the house. I don't need crap in my house; I need it to _go away_. Get the vacuum cleaner. Stupid Aida.

Three: When people abuse sarcasm.

"Hey, there are horses in that ranch!"

"No, Scout, there are obviously flying pigs there."

Don't use sarcasm if you can't use it. If you are trying to use sarcasm for the sake of being cool, you'll only make yourself look like a total jerk and wannabe. Jerks and wannabes are not cool.

Aida.

Four: The fact that I'm still pining after Gary Abbas. I mean, it seriously doesn't help when I see him on campus almost every day, looking like his usual cute and affable self.

Five: When Steve says that he can do it but can't (and destroy my things).

Number five can be traced back to when Aida needed to borrow my laptop.

The laptop that Aida's mom gave me was topnotch. It enabled me to surf through the internet faster than what my old small-screen computer could do (the thing was ancient, dated back in, like, 2000). She gave it to me when I turned eighteen as a birthday present, and it certainly bewildered my parents when they saw that it was StarkTech.

StarkTech cost a _fortune_.

The Jones was a well-off family that I grew close to after becoming Aida's friend. Mrs. Jones favored me over her daughter's past friends because of two reasons: I managed to be her longest friend and I was, apparently, a good role model. A role model in grades, that is. It's funny because I kept the standard A minuses and B pluses and one C—you'd think that I'd get straight A's, but the classes always sent me dozing off. Aida's grades weren't too good back in high school, but academics weren't ever her forte.

Anyway, Mrs. Jones liked me so much that she bought me an expensive laptop. Was I happy? You bet I was. A free computer—StarkTech, nonetheless!—and it was all mine.

I used that laptop for four years. It helped me on my assignments, and helped me procrastinate, which sometimes led to my grades dropping. Aching truth aside, I have to say, despite it being some years outdated, StarkTech was absolutely remarkable.

No viruses. No crash. This laptop had led my life into smooth sailing (with the exception of procrastination).

I played Tetris a lot.

The whole thing started with Aida. Aida needed to type up a report, and because she forgot her laptop at Harry's place (and Harry was out of town for a few days), she came over to borrow mine. After the coffee machine incident, you could say that I was reluctant on giving it to her, worrying myself sick if the unimaginable happens (in a way).

But, acknowledging the times when she let me borrow her stuff willy-nilly, I let her take it. Though, I was going to make sure that the coffee machine incident wouldn't happen, so I tagged along with her.

"Scout, I'm just heading over to the café, so quit your worrying and stalking," Aida said, sounding exasperated.

I shrugged. "Hey, I'm just making sure that the coffee machine incident wouldn't happen again."

"You swore that we wouldn't talk about that—_ever_!"

Along the way, we happened to come across Steve, who obviously came from the retirement home (he smelled strongly of old lady perfume). As usual, he wore a tucked plaid shirt and slacks. You'd think that the guy stepped out of time, especially with his hair combed in a particular way (that makes me think of FDR or JFK, for some reason), but it's pretty obvious that he was raised by old-fashioned parents. Or, we could go _Hey Arnold!_ and assume that his parents left him with grandparents to go investigate an Aztec temple or whatever.

Now that I think about it, Steve does kind of strike me as Arnold, the football head kid. Wonder who his Helga Pataki could be.

That's right. You know you're a nineties kid when you remember watching _Hey Arnold!_

Or read the entire _Goosebumps_ series. Or had Lisa Frank school supplies. Had Beanie Babies. Had her P.E teacher teach the Macarena. Played with the Tamagotchi. Just saying.

Steve, being Steve, had to join us when his eyes landed on us. He was probably raised as an interloper or something. And, you know what? Ever since Aida and Steve had first met, it's like they're meeting each other more than infrequently! I don't get how you can go four years not knowing who Blondie is, and then hanging out with Steve.

"Hello, Aida," Steve said.

"Hey, Steve," Aida returned. "Whatcha doing?"

"Oh, I just came back from the retirement home. What about you?"

"I'm heading down to the café, and, apparently, Scout is to." She shot me a half-hearted glare. "Stalker."

"Paranoid," I revised, because that's what I was at the moment.

Steve and Aida then had their conversation, leaving me as the third wheel. Not that this didn't happen often. Whenever there is someone jumping in and discuss too, I naturally fall quiet. For me, it's hard to have a conversation with more than two people talking.

It was evident that Steve was trying to include me into the conversation, but he gave up when I only gave laconic responses. Aida, who was used to me, kept on talking.

Somehow, the conversation ended with Steve walking to the café with us and holding my laptop.

"What the heck?" I blurted.

"What?" Aida and Steve looked down at me.

"Why is he holding my laptop?" I demanded, pointing at him.

"Haven't you been listening for the past five minutes?" Aida said.

"No." Obviously not.

"Don't worry, Scout," Steve assured, "I'm just carrying it so that neither of you two have to."

Who said that I wanted a laptop carrier? "No, it's alright. You don't have to."

"But I insist."

After a couple of polite exchanges, I finally grew tired and said, "Steve, something terrible is going to happen, and that'll end my laptop into ruins." And then I added, "Just like the coffee machine incident."

"Hey!" Aida cried.

Steve rolled his eyes. "I find that implausible," he stated flatly.

"No, seriously, it'll happen."

"Scout."

"Steve, I swear it'll happen."

"And I swear that it won't. Have a little faith in my carrying abilities…?"

"No."

That was when I found myself arguing with Steve. Arguing with Steve. I think this happened before, not that I remember, but still. The fact still stands that I'm arguing with Steve and that we're both too stubborn to relent. Of course, Steve's just getting a bit high and mighty with himself and should just shut up and do what I say because I'm right.

And to emphasis my exactitude, Steve didn't look where he was going, tripped over something, and sent my laptop flying into the air.

It went up and up and up, and then down and down and down.

It looked like it was going in slow motion! It was _that_ painful to watch!

When my laptop landed, it landed in the middle of the street. I think I was holding my breath because I let go a gush of air, my lungs feeling tight. Relief filled me up when I saw that the laptop still in one piece, the fall not that deep for a big impact.

Then a truck ran over it.

"My laptop!" I cried.

"My report!" Aida cried.

As for Steve, he just smiled sheepishly and said, "Oops…?"


	10. Apology In A Box

**Patriotic**

**SUMMARY:** He's my neighbor, though we don't really talk to each other. That until I found out that he was Captain America. (slow romance build up)

XOXOXO

When I hold a grudge, I hold it with a vice-grip. I admit, it's a pretty childish quality of mine, but, hey, that's what makes me Scout Won.

Anyway, I officially hate Steve What's-His-Surname's guts.

Why?

My laptop is obliterated all because of him.

I hate his freaking guts.

And I'm a terrible person for taking advantage of his guiltiness. He's giving me and Aida a piggyback back to my apartment.

XOXOXO

Two days after the laptop incident (yeah, we're calling it an incident now), someone was knocking on my door. It was a Tuesday in the afternoon, and somehow Steve knew that I would be in my apartment. Either he got the memo from Aida that I got fired from my job or that he just assumed that I'd be here.

When I opened the door, Steve was standing there, wearing the same sheepish smile, if not nervous, from the day when a truck ran over my laptop. In his arms was a box with brown wrapping.

"Yes?" I said, holding the door out wider.

"Ah, um…" He chewed his lip before saying, "I want to apologize…"

"Which you already did—frequently, if I may add," I found myself saying. And by frequent, I mean seven billion apologies.

If the man was put out by my tone of voice—which I did it unintentionally because my voice is usually and wonderfully flat and has nothing to do with the grudge that I was holding, just saying—he didn't show it. He just nodded and held out the box with two hands in my direction.

I stared at it.

"Um," Steve began.

"What is it?" I cut in.

"You, uh, are supposed to find out…?"

"Oh." Finding out—haha, it's a present, duh. I took the box and ripped the wrapping, and once the box was wrapping-free, I nearly dropped it. "Oh my gosh."

"I remember Aida telling me that her mother got you a StarkTech laptop for your birthday," Steve said, rubbing the back of his neck. I stared at the picture on the box before opening it, and saw a brand new laptop tucked in the Styrofoam. "Well, I happen to have a friend who works for Stark Industry and he was able to get me one for free."

I gasped. "For free?" I choked out. "Do you realize how expensive StarkTech is? Because of the upgrading? And Stark-ness? Steve, this is huge! Whoever your friend is, he must've got a high position in company to give away this for free! Holy cow," I paused, noticing something significant, "this was newly issued—I don't even think it's in stores yet."

"Erm…"

"I mean, I saw it from the ads, but… Holy cow, holy cow."

Holy cow. Holy cow. Holy cow.

Aida was _so_ going to be jealous.

Wait.

"Are you actually lying to me and had this thing smuggled?" I felt compelled to ask.

The expression on Steve's face said otherwise. "No! Of course not!"

Of course not. Why would he purloin something? As if the guy had it in him.

"So, you seriously have a friend who works for Stark Industry?"

"Yes," Steve exhaled. "I do."

"Oh." I took another look at the laptop—_my_ laptop. The one that had disks that were required to be downloaded into, and wires that needed plugging, and the two-inched manuals that needed to be read… "You know, technically, this isn't a laptop."

He blinked. "It isn't?"

"No," I said, and smiled slowly. "It isn't."

So that was when Steve voluntarily (out of guilt or not, I don't care) spent five hours helping me piecing my new laptop together.

XOXOXO

When Steve left, there was a card lying on the floor. I figured that he dropped it while on his way out. Reaching for it, I paused when I noticed that there was a photo of a man on it.

I feel obligated to start with saying that my life had always been in the center of normality. A bit of a depressing and lonely kind of normality, but I grew up as average as possible. I even grew up on the other side of the country, away from the Avengers and aliens and whatever excitement that seems to spring up on the east coast. My life began normally, regardless of how I managed to get away from my parents and fly to New York. People fly from place to place all the time—that's normal.

It was normal for me to have a neighbor who I wasn't close to at all. It was normal to juggle between work and school, to make a few friends, to have bad days, to still be single, to take all-nighters, to complain how New York had sucky weather, to fall in love with Steve's baked goods, to… You get the idea. And, okay, it was ironic how Gary Abbas ended up attending to the same college as me, but that's normal too.

But now I have to go off the tangent on this one. This one takes the kick, seriously. That card that was lying on the floor of my apartment, that one night when Steve and I finally finished setting my laptop up and congratulated each other tiredly yet happily—that one card was what set off the series of events that sent my normality spiraling into something more that I had never expected it to be.

I paused before picking up the card, because the photo of the man was Captain America who resembled Steve, my neighbor.


	11. Part 2: Whatever Days

**Patriotic**

**SUMMARY:** He's my neighbor, though we don't really talk to each other. That until I found out that he was Captain America. (slow romance build up)

**NOTES:** Apology on my account that this story lacks the canon characters, but I wanted the story to focus more so on the relationship developing between Scout and Steve. Tony, Natasha, Clint, Bruce, and the like would definitely show up, but perhaps later on as the story progress. Till then, it'll just have to be Steve.

* * *

I spent two hours just thinking. The card, I came to notice, had some sort of technology on it. I'm not what you would call tech savvy, and I even made Steve help me install my new laptop, but judging from the computer chip thing behind a thin film of plastic of the interior of the card, it could be said that the card was used as an access code or something.

I don't know. Maybe I should watch more action movies with Aida, the one with government agents and gunfire.

The picture of Steve with a blue cowl over his face kept making me frown. I don't know exactly why, though—other than him looking utterly ridiculous that I can't help but give a puckered brow, perhaps. Frankly, he did look stupid. Although, Halloween was just around the corner.

"This doesn't make sense," I said aloud, then shoved the card in my back pocket. Time to go shopping.

XOXOXO

Being jobless had its perks. For one thing, you don't have anywhere to go—you're free to do whatever you want to do! Unfortunately, you can't do what you want to do if you're low on pay. Jobless for a few days and poverty's already catching up to me; I couldn't even spare a quarter for a hobo.

Aida, being the best person in the universe, was generous enough as to buy my groceries. Somehow, my food just keeps diminishing no matter how often I restock the fridge and cupboards—this wasn't an issue three years ago. I must be eating more since I'm a growing girl.

Aida commented that I was just getting fat.

"Some people are scared of high lengths, but not me. Nope. I'm scared of the widths," I said, patting my stomach.

"Is it Steve's or Gary Abbas's?" Aida asked, patting my stomach too.

"Can I be Mrs. Abbas?" I'm half-serious.

While we finished shopping, both pair of arms cradling gargantuan paper bags of food, Aida suddenly exclaimed, "I want a Big Mac." And you know what that would entail? That would entail me getting her a Big Mac because she bought me my sustenance regardless of the creep who stands in the restaurant doing nothing.

"Fine," I said, "but you have to cover my back."

"Wimp."

After getting the burger, Aida began lamenting. I was half-paying attention to what she was lamenting about, to be honest. I mean, the girl can talk and talk and talk—you can't help but zone out when it's Aida. That, and I was pretty distracted during the day, my mind returning to Steve's card that I kept inside my butt pocket.

I probably snapped it in half when I sat down inside the taxi.

"Lament, lament, lament," was what I was hearing.

"A day without sunshine is, you know, night," I replied, making a vague hand gesture.

She rolled her eyes. "Thank you for your dose of philosophy, Madam Dragon Warrior," Aida imitated a raspy Japanese accent.

I really did try to be deep.


End file.
